by Shey Stahl
Have you ever had a cold and taken medicine for it to sleep? You know that groggy feeling you get when you wake up and you can’t remember how long you’ve slept, let alone where you are?
That’s how I feel. It’s as if I’m trapped in a fog and can’t seem to find my way through it to form a thought or words. Everything from the voices around me to the movements I make are excruciatingly slow.
Turning my head, I look around the room, trying to make sense of where I am. My head throbs with the motion, muscles seizing, blood rushing to my ears in a thumping rhythm. I squint at the onset of the pain, but it only makes it worse.
Raising my hand, I touch my face. It’s puffy and tender. One thing surfaces above everything else. Pain. It’s intense. So much so I fight to not cry out and scream.
Someone touches my hand, and though I don’t want anyone near me, I know that touch. There are three people in the room with me. A woman, a man, and him.
My heart stumbles. My eyes lift to his. I don’t say anything. Asa.
I try to recall how and why I’m here. I flip through thoughts, but nothing comes. At least not right away.
I remember the smell of the rain, the dirt, and the way the wind felt hitting my face. I remember the pain, the plea to stop. The excruciating pain… I remember standing in the driveway with Asa, and the beer. And him leaving. But that’s where the memory ends for me.
Nothing before, nothing after.
The male doctor sits next to me. “Do you remember anything?”
I breathe out, but no words come with it. My chin shakes, a rush of emotion hitting me. Asa holds my hand and doesn’t say anything.
It’s the woman standing at the foot of my bed who whispers, “I want you to know you don’t have to tell us anything.” And then she continues with, “Your wounds are consistent with someone who has been sexually assaulted. We would like to talk to you about performing a sexual assault evidence collection kit….” Her words hang there, as if I’m supposed to jump at the chance to report it.
What exactly am I reporting? That I don’t remember being raped? That I got drunk and had no regard for those around me?
“What does it involve?” Asa asks, his words so broken, so damaged like my body. I can’t imagine what he saw, what he went through to get me here.
I know I should be concerned with myself, but in those moments as he holds my hand and comforts a stranger to him, I think to myself, what kind of homecoming is this for him? First his mom dies, and now he’s here, in a hospital comforting his childhood friend he hasn’t seen in years.
I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t know what for. That I got myself in this position in the first place? That I drank and left myself vulnerable? I think I said no, but I don’t know for sure. Did I say it?
“The exam can take up to four hours, but in that time, you give us your best description of what you remember, then you undress and we survey your injuries and take photographs. We collect samples of DNA, take swabs of your genitalia, fingernail clippings, your clothing is taken to be examined and tested, and then we can treat you for your injuries, STDs, pregnancy, and then, you have a choice whether to report it, or wait. You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
I stare past the doctors, their words floating around me and they’re just that, words. They hold no meaning to me.
“We can start the process and you can tell us to stop at any time,” the woman says, as if they’re trying to convince me. She has a name, and I know she’s told me, maybe once or twice, but I can’t remember. Everything is still so foggy.
Could I report it? Would I? My words, my denial had gone unheard tonight, I think, but now I’m given an option? I turn to the woman peering down at me, concern on her deeply wrinkled face. My answer lodges in my throat, unable to slip past my lips. What would this mean?
The male doctor reaches for my other hand, “You have injuries that need to be treated, but if we prep you with an antibiotic solution, evidence is lost. This is your time to at least start the process. It’s up to you to decide what you do with that evidence, but at least you have it.”
My eyes wander over my hands, my forearms, the blood underneath my fingernails, everywhere I look there’s evidence that someone had used my body for their needs and left me to die. My first response, the words I chose to say is when I look at Asa. “I don’t want that.” Just the idea of the act, of what was done to me feels like I’ve been dropkicked in the stomach. I don’t want to remember any of the details.
I can see the disappointment on his face. It’s etched in the crease of his brow and the way his jaw clenches. “Yes, you do. You have to report this, Barrette. They need to pay for what they did, and the only way is for you to report it.”
“She doesn’t have to do it,” the female doctor says, touching my hand. “It’s her decision.”
I glance at the doctor. She’s glaring at Asa and he’s not backing down.
He dips his head forward, catching her eyesight. “I know it’s her decision. I’m not forcing her to do anything, but she should know if she doesn’t do this now, the likelihood of them ever finding out who did this—and them paying for it—are slim to none.” He motions to my body with a flick of his hand. “This is evidence. Evidence that will hold them accountable.”
The male doctor clears his throat. His hair is buzzed close to his head, his arms covered in tattoos. None of that matters, but I find myself looking at him for some reason and the ink on his arms. “He isn’t wrong.”
“No, he’s not, but no one should convince her of anything. It’s her choice,” the female doctor says, her arms crossed over her chest. I notice her name tag finally, my eyes narrowing in on her. Lucy. Her name is simple. I’ve always liked that name.
Something happens to me when I’m looking at her name tag. She doesn’t know. She’s never seen me before tonight, and this will probably be our last interaction and here she is, sticking up for me. Giving me a voice I’m not sure I have.
I look over at him, strain perceptible on his face. “Can you stay?” I ask Asa, unsure of my own request. His eyebrow rises, like he’s wondering if he heard me correctly. I glance at the woman doctor. “Is that allowed?”
She nods. “If you want him here, he can stay.” She waits, studying my face. And then her eyes focus on Asa.
He shakes his head. “I don’t have to.” He swallows, his jaw clenching. “It’s private. Maybe you might want to be alone?”
“I don’t… want to be.” Tears flood my eyes. I don’t want to be alone, my mind screams, but I don’t say that to him. I squeeze his hand, unable to separate myself from him. “Will you stay, please? Don’t leave.”
His jaw clenches, works back and forth. He swallows twice, his eyes clouding over. “I’m not going anywhere.” He speaks the words slowly and precisely, as if he needs me to believe them no matter what. He reaches for my hand. “I’m staying.”
The doctor clears her throat. “You understand that if you’re in the room with her, you will be called to testify as a witness should she press charges.”
“Will it go to court?” he asks, the vulnerability in his words so raw, so real. “If she presses charges?”
“It will. It’s her choice if she wants to have the evidence tested and prosecuted.”
My choice. They keep saying that.
Would a jury believe me? If I tell them I drank, I flirted, I left myself vulnerable, would they believe me that I didn’t want this? I meet Asa’s gaze, and the moment I do, my mouth goes dry. I’ve put him in this position and now what will it mean? At my reaction, his mouth clamps together. His shoulders stiff and defensive as he glares at me. “Don’t you dare, Barrette. Don’t do that. I’m here because I want to be and you need to report this for you, not me.”
Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands, each breath more labored than the last. I suffer at the pain deep within my body. It aches and radiates with every movement.
“Barrette.” The doctor wa
its, studying my face as she speaks the words, her hand on mine. “It’s just an exam. You can tell us to stop at any time, but you have to tell us you want to continue each step of the way.”
I nod and look to Asa.
“You have to say it, Barrette,” the female doctor says. “We can’t continue until you do. You have to tell us you consent to the exam.”
Tears roll down my cheeks and all I taste is the salt when I cry out, “I want to continue.” My vision focuses on Asa and the way his face reflects every emotion from relief to anger.
“You’re making the right decision, Barrette. Lucy is going to take it from here.” The male doctor excuses himself. “I’ll come back later to take care of that laceration on your face and we can discuss further treatment of your injuries.”
Before he leaves, he talks to Lucy. She nods to everything he’s saying. I don’t look at them any longer, and instead, I obsess over details in the room. The table, the camera they bring in, and then my gaze finds Asa because I don’t know what else to do. I do not want him to leave the room, and the death grip I have on his hand is unhealthy, and I have no idea where these feelings of attachment are coming from. But the thought of being alone now terrifies me.
“I won’t leave,” he assures me, seeming to know where my thoughts are.
I draw in a heavy breath as Lucy sets a box on the counter. I read the label. Sexual Assault Testing Kit. Never would I have thought I would see that. Up until now, I was a virgin. The girl guys ignored and classified as the prude. But I wasn’t. I just didn’t want any of the boys at our high school. Is that why this happened? Because I was the prude? Was it retaliation for something I didn’t do for one of them?
“Were my parents called?” I ask, looking to Asa, and then Lucy.
His worried gaze moves to hers, his grip on my hand remaining strong and controlled but underneath the hold, I can tell by the sweat and the tremble to his fingers, he’s just as scared as I am.
Lucy opens the box and pulls out a sheet of paper that’s on top, her pen in her hand. “We called, but there was no answer. We haven’t been able to locate them.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “They’re in Spain for the summer.”
She nods. “We will get in touch with them.”
FOR HOURS, THE doctor pokes, prods, swabs, and takes pictures of my body and assesses my injuries. They undress me in front of him, to keep evidence intact and run a blue light over my body. They measure bruises, cuts, and abrasions, evidence of the brutal beating I took not only psychologically, but physically. Dozens of reminders cover my arms and every inch of my body.
Through all of that, I focus on one person. Asa. He doesn’t react, he doesn’t look when I’m naked in front of him. His eyes never stray. They simply hold mine and reassure me that he came back for a reason. For me. He brought me here and without a doubt, saved my life. They ask questions and expect answers I don’t have. They record my responses. They want to know if I have any enemies? Did I suspect anyone? I have no memory of the night, other than drinking.
What’s the use? Would anyone believe me?
And then it comes down to, what do I do next? Do I report it to the police and hope that they believe my story? Hope that if they do find out who did this, they are in fact held accountable? You see it on the news all the time. Sexual assault victims pleading their case only to get nowhere after years of exhausting themselves both mentally and physically. I didn’t want to be a rape victim, let alone publicly known as one. As far as I’m concerned, nobody outside of this room will know about it.
“Would you like us to report this to the police?”
That’s when it hits me in the chest that it’s real. Sure, the exam made it feel real and a complete invasion of privacy. They photographed me completely naked! I cried through the entire exam thinking that if I hadn’t drank—none of this would have happened. None of it.
I shake my head. I shake it because I don’t know if I understand the meaning. “I… don’t want to report it,” I tell them, clinging to the blankets covering me. I want to hide under them, away from the world. I don’t want anyone to see me or hear my words.
Asa doesn’t say a word but by the look in his eyes, the flash of anger that hits them, I know he’s upset with me.
I squeeze my eyes shut because the confusion and pain are unbearable.
Lucy rubs my shoulder, and Asa stands, his chair screeching against the tile floor before hitting the wall with a bang. I jump, my breath catching, and I look at him. He gasps. “I’m sorry.” He sighs heavily and runs his hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck.
Lucy, who glares at him, then shifts her eyes to mine. “You have time to decide. This was the first step and gives you a longer statute of limitations to report it.”
I stare at the wall, past the doctors to the window. It’s morning. The sun’s streaming through a window in the upper left of the room. A memory hits me, but then fades just as quickly. It’s the one of Asa walking up the driveway, leaving last night, but now he’s here, holding my hand through a night I don’t remember.
She isn’t going to report it. All that and she isn’t going to fucking report it? I thought I knew anger when I found her, but the idea of whoever the son of a bitch was that did this, is going to run free, well, take a look at me. Do I look fucking calm?
It’s only when Barrette is being treated for STDs and given the morning after pill that I’m alone with my thoughts. She’s given a sedative to get some rest after they stitch her forehead up. I excuse myself and punch the wall in the bathroom.
I scream, I cry, and argue with her doctor that she should force her to do something. “You need to force her to do this! She has to report it!” I yell at him, my breathing out of control, my emotions all over the place. I can’t control my words or my actions.
He pulls me aside, caught off guard by my temper tantrum in the ER. I can tell by the slow turn of his head to Barrette’s room and the way he narrows his eyes at me that I crossed a line. The vein in his forehead protrudes as he attempts to hide his irritation with me. “You think forcing a victim of sexual assault is the right thing to do? You don’t think she’s been forced enough?”
It’s his use of the word “forced” that resonates with me and I begin to understand by the way his jaw hardens, he did that on purpose. My stomach leaps at the word. “But they’re going to get away with it if she doesn’t.”
He shakes his head, as if I’m just not getting it, and in a sense, I’m not. “This is her choice. And if you’re really her friend, you’re going to leave it as her choice.” His voice lowers and he leans in. “Barrette was raped. Brutally raped. Her denial, if there was one given her state of consciousness at the time, meant nothing to them. You forcing her to do something leaves you just as guilty as them.”
Before his words made sense, I think about hitting him. It’ll make me feel better, for sure, but with my luck, he’ll sue me and I’ll be in more trouble than I was back in Ohio. That scholarship to UW will be gone and I probably won’t see Barrette again because, well, I’ll be in jail. Hitting him won’t solve anything. Finding the motherfuckers who did this will, but then again, his words held meaning.
Forcing her to report this makes me just as guilty as them, and I know there has to be more than one. In my gut, I know it and regardless if she reports it, I’ll find who did this to her.
Reluctantly, I return to the room where Barrette is. It’s the middle of the afternoon, Cadence has been calling me nonstop. I didn’t realize she had my number, but it got out. Remember the guys who helped me to the car? Well, the rumor mill’s started. Everyone knows she’s been raped.
Barrette stares at me when Cadence shows up. She freaks out. “Who raped you?”
I’ve never wanted to hit a girl until now, and it’s Cadence because the moment she says the word rape, Barrette shuts down. She refuses to talk, eat, look at anyone, or respond in any way other than she wants to leave and wants me to
take her home.
I pull Cadence aside, much like the doctor did to me, only this time I’m not as subtle as he was with me. “Nice going,” I mumble, leaning on the wall.
“What the fuck happened? I left her last night, and she was drunk and sitting on Xander’s lap. I’ll fucking kill him if he had something to do with it.”
I draw in a breath, trying to calm myself from doing just that. “I don’t know if it was him. When I found her, he was passed out near the fire.”
She tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear and then crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s cold.
“Who else was with her after I left?”
There’s panic in her eyes, an emotion I don’t know whether to question, or appreciate. “Nobody that I know, but I left not long after you.”
“What about Remy?”
Tears flood in her eyes. “She passed out before that in her room.” She gasps and the tears slip past her cheeks. “Asa, I… I’m sorry for what I said in there. It’s just… I don’t know what to do for her, and I just sorta freaked out.”
I lean into the wall with my shoulder. “You and me both. I nearly punched her doctor.”
“You’ve always had the worst temper. I still remember when you decked that kid for taking her lunch money in the fourth grade.”
“He had it coming,” I grumble. You’re starting to see a pattern, aren’t you?
She laughs, but it doesn’t touch her eyes.
“How did you get here? Did she call you?”
“No. Something told me to go back so I did. When I didn’t find her by the fire, I wandered down by the water and I noticed her sweatshirt. I found her in the woods.”
Cadence takes a tissue and wipes her eyes. “I’m so glad you came back.”
It’s then I wonder what everyone’s saying because maybe then I’ll get some insight into who was there. “What’s everyone saying?”
“Nothing really, just that it’s fucked up someone would do that. Roman said he didn’t see anything, but he was in his room all night. The last thing anyone remembers was her walking away from Xander and standing by the water.”